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W. ROCK, PRINTER, WALWORTH ROAD, NEWINRTON. 



205449 
3 13 



THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON, 



AUTHORESS OF 



THE "UNDIING ONE, ETC. 



THIS BAGATELLE 



IS HUMBLY DEDICATED, 



IN ADMIRATION OE HER GENIUS, 



BY THE AUTHOli. 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL 



A FEAGMENTAEY LEGEND OF THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 



Fair is that isle, the richest gem, 
That shines in Britain's diadem, 
Or in the ocean, mirrored bright, 
Seems sleeping on a sea of light ; 
There Nature with a lavish hand 
Hath thrown her beauties o'er the land ; 
There hill, and dale, and upland rise, 
Magnificent before the eyes ; 
While here and there some hanging wood. 
Bends o"er the dark unfathomed flood, 
And the grim precipice looks down 
With threatening front, and awful frown', 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 

Where the deep ocean's awful roar, 
Beats on the ever-sounding shore. 
And skimming between wave and sky 
Is heard the sea-mew's piercing cry, 
While sea-ward many a snow white sail 
Arches its bosom to the gale, 
And on the shore the waves are rolled 
Like heaving billows of loose gold, 
While all along, the glittering strand, 
Looks like some bright enchanted land. 
A dim white speck upon the sky 
The fisher's distant bark we spy, 
Changing with every shifting hue, 
Purple and pearl, and waning blue, 
And rosy tints in wa\es engrailed 
As if it on a rainbow sailed. 
There doth the jutting headland stand 
Like some huge giant about to land — 
The waves still washing round his knee, 
His broad foot buried in the sea. 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 

And stretched on many a lonely rock 
The musing shepherd tends his flock ; 
Or seated on some craggy ledge 
Looks fearless down its giddy edge 
On the deep gulf that yawns beneath, 
Like the vast sepulchre of Death. 

There cliff and crag are reared sublime, 
Like mighty landmarks left by Time : 
Ten thousand storms they back have tost 
And still stand bulwarks of the coast : 
They shook the thunder from their head, 
Spurned back the ocean to his bed, 
And when the tempest rocked the shore, 
Unmoved, defied its deepest roar. 

Inland what lovely scenes arise, 

It looks a sea-locked Paradise ! 

As if to guard such pleasant ground 

The ocean came and hemmed it round, 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL 

Lest other lands not half so fair 
Companionship with it might share ; 
So to possess alone those charms 
The fond sea clasped it in her arms ; 
And night by night, and day by day, 
She calls out all her waves to play — 
Kisses the shore with gentle swell, 
Sends sweetest murmurs from her shell, 
And often on the level deep 
Doth lull her dearest Nymphs to sleep. 

From Ventnor stretching scarce a mile, 

The loveliest spot on this blessed Isle, 

And near unto the castled pile; 

A little trickling rill doth play 

Through the worn rock — and dash its way 

Into a basin formed to hold 

The crystal stream so pure and cold, 

Where running through the tunnelled clay, 

It passes from the light of day. 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 

The basin's like a scollop shell — 
The fount is called "St. Lawrence' Well." 
Art hath done much to deck the place 
With carvings and with forms of grace ; 
The Norman arch is shaded o'er 
By bending willows, and before 
The gates are seats for those who tire; 
There they may rest, and still admire 
The magic beauty of the spot, 
Which looks like some magician's grot — 
And listen to that murmuring sound, 
The falling water echoes round, 
And note the dark-leaved ivy winding 
Its trailing tendrils there, and binding 
Its circling arms around the trees 
That rock at every passing breeze. 
And many a heart no doubt hath been 
Charmed by the beauty of that scene. 

And oft-times, in the evening grey, 
The village gossips thither stray, 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 

About the closing of the flowers, 
And wile away the twilight hours, 
With legends of the sparkling stream, 
And many a fairy-haunted dream : 
That tell how oft strange sights are seen 
By those who late that way have been ; 
Of shadows flitting o'er the grass, 
That grin and gibe on those who pass : 
Of moving form of maiden pale, 
Dim shrouded in a snow-white veil, 
Who beckons to the lonely wight, 
And lures him darker down the night. 
T is also said the fount can charm 
The wounded soul, and free from harm 
The aching heart, and inward heal 
Its burning throbs, and make him feel 
Cold at the smiles of Earth's fair daughters- 
Such charms have those enchanted waters. 

Now three-score years have rolled away, 

And yet it seems but yesterday 



ST. LAWKENCE S WELL, 

(Though Ventnor was a village then, 
Nor had the " busy hum of men " 
Disturbed, as now, its sweet repose) — 
Since first this old tradition rose : — 
As harvest-time was drawing nigh — 
One Autumn eve, when mounted high 
The round moon looked out from the sky, 
A youth of goodly face and frame 
Alone unto the fountain came ; 
Way-worn he seemed, and much oppressed 
With gloomy thoughts — for o'er his breast 
His head was languidly reclined — 
While thus outspoke his brooding mind : — 

" Oh, why hath fate within me nursed 
Hopes that are blighted, seared, and cursed. 
Why was my soul thus edged so keen 
To love, or insult ; it hath been 
A stormy struggle through my life, 
To keep aloof from love or strife. 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL. 

To some smooth fool must I give place, 
Who owns a better form and face ? 
Yet have I often read and heard 
Of gentle maidens, who have cared 
Less for the form than for the heart — 
The soul — the mind — the noblest part 
Of God's own image, — Heaven's best light 
Reflecting back its power, its might ; — 
But that meets not a maiden's sight. 
Though I 'm not rich, yet have I store 
Of hidden wealth in classic lore. 

Why do I murmur thus ? — the mind 
Must in itself contentment find. 
Cheer up, bold heart, and thou and I, 
Instead of courting, will defy 
The worst that Fate can do — alone, 
Without a single friend to own, — 
With nought but heaven's eternal fires 
Above me, and my mouldering sires 



ST. LA WHENCE S WELL. 

In their long sleep beneath, I dare, 
With nought to lose — all earth and air, — 
And nought to gain in this world, save 
On some fought field an unknown grave. 

What thoughts are these which throw my brain 

Into a chaos ! — till, like Cain, 

I feel upon my burning brow 

The fiery brand of sin's deep plough ? 

I deemed that ravings wild as these 

Were buried 'neath the sleeping seas 

Of sorrow, when my mother's pall 

Covered the first — the last— the all 

Who ever felt a genial ray 

Of kindness for poor Eustace Bray. 

It must be that the place — the night — 
The time— yon moon, so softly bright, 
Conspire to cause this tumult in 
My o'ercharged mind ; all thoughts of sin 



10 st. Lawrence's well. 

Seem melting from my troubled soul, 
And o'er me cease to have controul ; 
Some power, too, calls from its dark cell, 
Her memory — that I loved so well. 

Loved! did I say ? — Oh 't was a love 
Like that of saints for heaven above ; 
Dearer than fame — ambition — power, — 
Or aught that Fortune e'er could shower 
On her best favorites; — fiercer, far, 
Than mortal passions ever are, 
Is this subduing flame of mine, 
Which, after all that 's past, will shine, 
Though coldly, on this breaking heart, 
Until the earth shall claim its part. 

And yet she loves me not! — the gleam 
Of pleasure that doth often beam 
O'er her loved features when we meet, 
Like the moon's ray, springs not from heat 



st. Lawrence's well 



Ah no ! her haughty heart, for mc 
Hath not one throb of sympathy ! 

She loves me not— and yet, oh why 
Is it this recreant soul should sigh 
For one who feels contempt and scorn 
To'ards me and mine ?— Why should I fau 
Upon the hand that spurns, disdains, 
And loves to triumph o'er my pains? 
And yet, oh foolish heart, say why 
For such a one thou fain would'st die ? 

X)i e J — I would deem that death too sweet 
That breathed this life out at her feet— 
To have one gentle word or look, 
Before my soul its last flight took— 
To hear her mourning o'er my woes 
Before these eyes for ever close ; 
Oh this were bliss — were joy, indeed; — 
But Heaven hath other things decreed." 



i I 



12 st. Lawrence's well. 



With one wild cry that echoed round, 
He threw himself upon the ground; 
And bitter sobs of deep despair 
Burst from him, while extended there — 
He gave full way to all his care ; 
And thus, as he in sorrow wept, 
Nature o'ertook him, and he slept. 

He slept ; — the green grass was his bed, 

The pale moon shone above his head ; 

And not a breathing of the air, 

Disturbed the silence reigning there. 

Where were the hands that should have smoothed 

That forlorn couch, and sweetly soothed 

That grief so deep, that spirit's gloom ? — 

Alas, cold in the silent tomb. 

No earthly friends to him were given, 

Yet o'er him stretched the vaulted Heaven, 



y 



ST. LAWRENCES WELL. 



13 



And one bright, mild and pitying star 

Seemed to look on him from afar. 

He slept — the troubled broken sleep, 

The restless mind must ever keep ; — 

He dreamed — and thought that he was still 

Listening to that murmuring rill ; 

When suddenly it seemed to him 

The music of some sacred hymn 

Came borne upon the still night wind, 

Around, above, below, behind, 

'T was everywhere pervading space, 

As if the breeze it did embrace ; 

Anon, it ceased, — and then full soon 

A maiden brighter than the moon 

Before him in her beauty stood, 

Intently gazing o'er the flood, 

And bending on him her sweet face, 

Radiant with dignity and grace, 

She slowly raised her rounded-arm, 

Then muttering some powerful charm, 



mm 



ST. LAWRENCES WLLL. 

She pointed to the fountain's coiirse, 
When back unto its native source 
Returned the rippling stream. k ' Tis well,' 
Said a voice, like a silver bell, 
lk Thou hast gone to thy golden home, 
And now, again, I charge thee come, 
With awful spell and solemn prayer. 
Back with the wealth that 's hidden there ; 
Listen to thy mistress' pleaslire — 
Spirit of the hidden treasure." 



A noise — a slight and gushing noise 
Followed the music of that voice, 
Then back unto its course ^gain 
The little bubbling fountain came, — 
And the lone sleeper saw before 
Him spread, bright bits of golden ore 
Poured downwards with the dancing stream 
He started — woke, — 'twas but a dream : 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL, 

His head was on the fountain-stone, 

And over all the grey morn shone. 

On bended knee the youth then quaffed 

Of that strange well, one long, deep, draught. 



A few short years had passed, when he, 
Erst Eustace Bray — held high degree ; 
And 'midst the proudest of the land — 
Rich and ennobled — took his stand. 
All thought 'twas strange — for no one knew 
Whence came his wealth — his friends, or who 
Upon his nameless head had set 
That glittering gem — a coronet ! 

Some said, he 'd crossed the ocean roar, 
And visiting a foreign shore, 
Had by dark deeds (so they had learned,) 
Estates and honours largely earned : 



16 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 



And some, that he was leagued with those 

Who were his country's direst foes, 

Had turned a renegade, and sold 

The land that bore him, for their gold ; — 

All this— and more, had rumour told. 

And what thought he, the Scholar Lord, 

Of all they said, — he saw — and heard? 

He scorned their love — their praise— their hate 

His heart was proud, though desolate. 

Yet did he feel a loathing sore 

For their opinion ; and the more 

He knew mankind, the less he felt 

Of happiness ; for he had dwelt 

'Midst high and low, 'mong rich and poor, 

In stately hall and cottage door — 

He saw all with a jaundiced eye — 

The one he loved was never by. 



He came back to his native home 

(A bird that knows not where to roam). 



ST. LAWRENCE S WELL. 

He came, alas ! he came too late ; 

A little sooner, and his fate 

Had yet been blest — but now 'twas past, — 

The one he loved was wed at last. 

An older and a wiser man 

The race of love had better ran. 

It may be that he thought her cold — 
That all his love he never told ; 

It may be 'Twas too late — she sought 

To please her sire, for she thought 
He she had slighted long since slept 
In the cold grave. Some said she wept ; 
But if she did 'twas when alone — 
No mortal heard her sigh or moan. 

They met by chance, 'twas in a bower, 
Where oft-times at the vesper hour, 
In the first flush of hope and youth, 

They oft had vowed eternal truth. 



18 st. laweence's well. 

They met ! No wonder if a start, 

A sudden impulse of the heart — 

A wild desire to cling around 

The long-lost one, so strangely found, — 

To lean her head upon his breast, 

And let the past be then confessed ; 

To bend at last — her haughty pride ; — 

But 'twas to late She is a bride— 

That clay-cold hand to one is given 
Who holds it as a boon from heaven. 

It must not be ! fly hence, away — 
She's sworn to cherish and obey, 
And she will keep that solemn vow : 
" Eustace," she said, " 'tis over now." 

That voice ! the name, so softly spoken, 
Have stirred the heart so nearly broken ; 
And years of anguish and of pain 
Seemed to flit by, as once again 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL. 19 

He gazed upon that long-loved face ; 
Alas, the marks which sorrow's trace 
Deeper than those that time can plough, 
Were stamped upon her pale white brow. 

t; Lady, by all that 's past, I pray 

That one short moment you will stay, 

And list to me ; oh, ne'er again, 

Though mine the wrong, and mine the pain, 

After this night, will I complain ; 

But," and that voice so coldly stern 

To others, faltered, "I return 

To its first owner what I've worn 

Next to this heart both night and morn, 

And looked upon as the sole tie 

That bade me live — I could not die, 

Though often prompted by despair, 

Till thou hadst back this lock of hair, 

For still "t would whisper to me, ' She 

Who gave this pledge of constancy, 



20 



ST. LAW11ENCE S WELL. 



Must one day think upon the vow 
With which 'twas given.' Ada, how 
I've looked on this — a thousand times. 
When far away 'midst other climes, 
And kissed this sad remembrance of 
Thy early faith and youthful love ; 
And cursed that fate whose malice gave 
A life, whose hope is but the grave." 

She moved not — spoke not- — but her eyes 
Gazed on him wildly, and deep sighs 
Heaved from her breast — she bowed her head, 
And from her heart wished she were dead. 
Could she but in that hour recall 
The folly of her life : not all 
The wealth *ofMiidia's golden land 
Would from him win that little hand. 



Alas, vain wish, 'tis all too late — 
We call Pride Virtue— Coldncs* Fate ; 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL. 



21 



And oft, at last, is rightly prized 
The heart that was before despised. 

" And now," said he, " my pilgrimage, 
I trust, is past ; though young in age, 
I'm old in grief — care-worn, and weary 
Of this world's troubles ; oh, how dreary 
The life that hath nor hope nor aim, 
But day by day knows still the same 
Unvarying round of misery. 
Loved one, I bid adieu to thee 
For the last time. We part for ever, 
And I must strive henceforth to sever 
Thine image from my thoughts — to deem 
All that hath past was but a dream." 

He paused ; — no motion — word — reply — 
Told him that she knew him nigh. 
Upon his blow there came and went 
One small red spot by passion sent ; 



w 



22 ST. LAWRENCES WELL. 

Then the deep sorrow of that look 
Laid bare his soul, — an instant shook 
His troubled form, like aspen bough 
In summer air : — 'tis over now. 

" And can this be — not e'en one word, 
Nor parting sign that thou hast heard 
The last that I shall ever say 
To thee or thine ? I will away : 
A vessel's waiting my command, 
To bear me to some distant land." 

She tried to answer — not a word 
That her heart uttered could be heard ; 
The tear that trickled down her cheek, 
Showed that it was too full to speak. 
He saw not this, but, with a sigh, 
Read only coldness in her eye. 
He turned to go — yet ere he went, 
One look — the last ! — on her he bent ; 



ST. LAWEENCES WELL. 

Her graceful form was drooping on 
The arbour-seat ; no marble stone 
More motionless or still could be 
Than the pale form he turned to see. 

Some hours later, when the light 

Had faded, and 'twas starless night, 

The lady by a menial throng, 

Was sought her fav'rite bowers among ; 

After long search, at last they meet 

The lost one, on the arbour-seat. 

But oh! how cold! — and long they strive 

Before their mistress doth revive ; 

And when at length their task was done, 

All that she said was — " Is he gone ?" 



The brightest summer dies away ; 
The richest autumn brings decay ; 



24 ST. IA-WSENCE's well. 

And icy winter throws o"er all 
Her winding sheet and funeral pall. 
And oft-times o'er the sweetest spring, 
The storm and cloud their darkness fling. 
Man's heart alone — if scarred by woe — 
No cheering change can ever know ; 
There, on his self-built ebon throne, 
Dark desolation reigns alone, 
And sorrow ever makes her moan. 
Like muffled drums the pulses beat, 
A funeral march to their retreat. 

'Twas eve again ; beneath a tree 
That grew within a cemetery, 
And shrouded : neath its shadowy gloom — 
A snow-white simple marble tomb ; — 
There stood the aged form of one 
Whose glass of life was well nigh run ; 
His hair was blanched — his form was bent, 
And strongly seamed, each lineament, 



ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL. 25 

Yet still there was expanse of brow, 
And eyes that once with love could glow, 
And lip on which scorn once could ride, 
In deep, unconquerable pride. 
Why stoops he now ? It is to know 
The name of her who sleeps below. 

The sun was setting ; and there strayed 
A single beam into the shade : 
It fell upon the tomb, and lit 
The legend that was traced on it. 
He paused and read, — then fell upon 
That death-denoting cold grey stone — 
Removed the covering from his head, 
And bent above the silent dead — 
Then breathed a long and fervent prayer 
For her — the loved one ! — slumbering there. 

Upon his heart was shadowed grief, 
Too deep to ever know relief; 

E 



26 st. laweexce's well. 

The image that could only light 

Its gloom, had set in endless night ; 

For his proud soul could never brook 

The scornful, cold, contemptuous look ; 

So forth into the world he went, 

Still loving, though his heart was rent : 

Nor strove to find in other's bieast 

For that deerj love, return or rest. 

He back returned to find her lost, 

And all his fond hopes wildly tost, 

Unto the changeful winds of heaven : 

Dark clouds had o'er his white hopes driven. 

Night came, and threw her shadows round 

The tombs within that gloomy ground ; 

Yet still there stood the wanderer, 

As if he never more would stir. 

Oh, whither should he go ? that place 

Encircled in its dark embrace 



st. laweence's well. 27 

All that his broken heart held dear ; 
And that all now lay mouldering there. 
All the fond hopes his soul had cherished 
Within that marble tomb had perished. 

Day broke ! and though its bright beams shone 

Full on that tomb, it stood alone. 

The form that by it knelt had gone ; 

And where he went, and what befel 

Him after, boots not here to tell. 

For if to die he laid him down, 

"Twas where he was to all unknown: 

For him no heart's convulsive sigh 

Brought the bright tear in pity's eye. 

What matter where he fell — his head 

Found at the last a peaceful bed. 

Though the wild sea-bird screamed above, 

Hushed was the stormy strife of love ; 

Though o'er his grave the billows roar; 

Nor love, nor hate disturbed him more. 



28 ST. LAWRENCE'S WELL. 

Too late, alas ! he lived to find 
He'd chased the storm, and reaped the wind. 
" Above hrm rests the twilight dim — 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 



THE END. 



XT. ItoCli, l'KlNTKIl, WALWORTH ROAD, NEWINGT6N. 



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